The Prodigal Son of Pyke
by lannerz
Summary: Theon Greyjoy expected a warm welcome when he returned home to his family in Pyke. He did not expect this - to be mocked and ridiculed. It's not what he deserves or wanted, but it's all he has now.


**Author's Notes:** I'm not going to lie: Theon Greyjoy is my favorite character, and I have no regrets about this. It was high time I write a fanfic for him since he gets shit on all the time. I know, I know. How can this be? I seemed like such a nice, smart girl. Well, the truth is, I understand him completely, and I adore him.

**Disclaimer: **GRRM owns all of these characters and also my soul. Also, if I was the writer, Theon would never have to put up with the Bastard's shit ever.

**The Prodigal Son of Pyke**

He'd been in his cups too much again.

Theon wiped at his bleary eyes, trying to concentrate on the men feasting in front of him, but all he could think about was how furious he was. The angrier he was, the more he drank, and the more he drank, the angrier he became. Everyone around him seemed positively _cheerful_, which only served to infuriate him further. The Iron Born were by no means a cheerful sort, but if the occasion served right, they could be rather gleeful.

Of course, their idea of being gleeful involved singing songs filled with debauchery, drinking, and grabbing the closest serving wench and banging her in front of everyone to see. It might also involve stabbing someone, depending on the place and the people. Theon certainly felt like stabbing someone right now, shooting a glare at his older sister, whose ear their father was whispering into.

This was not going the way he'd planned at all. He'd thought that there would be fanfare for him when he finally returned home, but there had been nothing of the sort. Asha had waved her goblet at all the men in the room, standing up with one foot on her chair, and announced, _"To the Prince of Pyke, who has finally come swimming home!"_ But she'd winked at him and the men had all laughed. One man had even shouted to question if Theon was even capable of swimming anymore or if the North had made him land-born.

_I am Iron Born,_ Theon thought as he glowered into his almost empty cup of wine. He could just make out his reflection in the dark red liquid, and it looked as if he had been covered in crimson blood. It should be Lannister blood they were spilling, he couldn't help but remember, but he squashed the thought as soon as it came to him. No sense in thinking like that. He was a son of Pyke and so he should feel no shame. Still, it stung to think that his return meant absolutely nothing to what he'd always thought were his people. Even his father had practically continued to act as if his only son hadn't come home.

No, this feast was not for him at all and would've gone on with or without him, and the knife stuck in his back hurt more than Theon would ever admit.

He was about to drain his cup and refill it when a voice slipped into his ear, "What's wrong, little brother? Need someone to take that prick in your pants and show you how to be a man again?"

Theon jerked away from his sister almost violently, shoving himself back in his chair away from the table. "Fuck's sake, Asha!" he snapped. When he jumped to his feet, he staggered and bumped into the table; his cup topped off the table and down to the stone floor, spilling the rest of the wine everywhere at the men's feet. Asha let out a laugh and everyone followed suit. Theon burned red, whether from the humiliation or the wine, he wasn't sure, and stormed out of the hall, shoving men out of his way.

"Off to go run to your mummy?" one man guffawed.

"No," another man answered with a sneer as Theon pushed him away from the door, "more like to his lover the Young Wolf!"

Hot tears burned at Theon's eyes as he stormed down the empty hall, the laughter of the men following his retreating form, but he dared not let them fall. It had been ten years since salty tears had spilled down his cheeks, not since he'd been ripped away from his family and had watched Pyke disappear in the fog of night while he sailed away with the Starks. If he let them fall now, at nine and ten, he would be labeled a coward and no man would ever respect him. (He'd barely be able to respect himself.) He was just too drunk, was all, too much wine during the feast and not nearly enough food.

Everyone in there was thick in the head. None of them had any idea what he'd gone through. These men, even Asha, assumed that he'd gone all willy-nilly to Winterfell, as if he'd chosen to go there, but he hadn't. His father had given him away, like a consolation prize to the Starks. The first year had been terrible, but nothing could compare to those first three nights. With King Robert Baratheon always in his cups and Lord Ned Stark seemingly never far away enough, young Theon had been forced to cower, lest the king yell at him for some reason. He'd even been forced to fill Robert's cup and the one time he'd spilled wine, Robert had smacked the jug out of his hands so hard that it had flown up and smacked him in the face, bloodying his nose.

He'd suffered and for what? So his father could lose a rebellion and start another one ten years later? This time, if they failed, they wouldn't just take Theon back and raise him under the guise of a ward. They'd told him that when he was little so he wouldn't be so scared or tremble as he had that first month, but it hadn't taken him long to understand what he truly was. He had been a prisoner, a warning, and a threat. No, should this second rebellion fail, he would be killed like his brothers before him. And who would grieve for him? His sister who had all the power that should've been his? His father who could barely even look at him? Perhaps his mother would, but she wasn't here and was already lost in her grief, from what he'd heard.

Theon didn't even realize he was standing on a perilous bridge until a burst of wind nearly knocked him right off. He stumbled to the side, clinging to a rope, and glanced down at the raging, black sea below him. It would swallow him whole, like the North would swallow all these stupid Iron Born that knew nothing about it. He might have been away from the sea for years, but he knew the North better than anyone else here. His sea feet came back to him naturally, but these Iron Islanders would struggle in the North without a doubt. Not him though. He was strong and cold, salt and iron. If the North couldn't break him and the Iron Islands could not destroy him, then he was stronger than most of these men combined.

"Boy!" a low voice called. "Get off that bridge, 'fore you topple right over and your body gets smashed on those rocks!"

Theon turned around, a bit too sharply, and had to lean back against the ropes. When he squinted his eyes, he could see Dagmer through the rain, standing and holding a torch. The fire was the only thing of color in this god-forsaken place. "I'm not a boy!" Theon shouted back, his words slurred and tongue thick. "I'm the Prince of Pyke!"

"The sea don't care 'bout that, prince!"

Huffing, Theon stumbled across the bridge, having to stop every now and then when the bridge seemed to fall out from underneath his feet. He gripped the line so tight that he would've burned himself had he not been wearing gloves. It was hard to tell from the lack of light, the rain, and the ugliness of his face, but Dagmer looked somewhat relieved once Theon was on solid ground. He didn't realize how off balance he was until he stood there without the bridge shaking as well.

"Are you trying to get yerself killed?" Dagmer asked as they walked back inside.

Theon felt soaked to the bone and the cold worked its way into him, slithering under his skin like a snake. Still, he refused to wrap his arms around himself and tried to keep his body from shivering. "I was trying to clear my mind."

"Well, dying is one way of doing that," Dagmer grumbled, "but not the best."

"Why aren't you at the feast?" Theon demanded, trying to focus on the older man's face.

Dagmer just shrugged his shoulders. "Figured I'll have plenty o' time to feast in the halls of the Drowned God when I'm dead."

Theon went silent after that and Dagmer let him be. The two of them separated without bidding each other goodnight. Dagmer went off to do whatever he would rather do and Theon returned to his chambers. After slamming the door shut, he pulled his shirt over his head and fell face first into his bed, his body slumping weakly into the cushion. _What I need is a good fuck to get this frustration out,_ he thought, but he just rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, the faint smell of weirwood-tinged smoke wafting in the air.


End file.
